


Thumbing My Way Back to You

by 13ways



Series: Maybe I Miss You [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Bareback mention, Canon Compliant, Car Sex, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Ex Sex, Fizzy and Jay mention, Hate Sex, Love/Hate, M/M, Masturbation, Nighttime, Phone Sex, TEARS TEARS TEARS, Wank wank wank, moody, one of them is in a car and one’s on a plane, rimming mention, this one is melancholic so so so melancholic, you have to have an appetite for angst!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 06:44:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19000477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13ways/pseuds/13ways
Summary: Louis is on his way back to London after the Hits Live Birmingham concert. Harry is flying to New York for the Met Gala. They connect.This is Part 1 of a canon-compliant series. Part 2 isHeel, Part 3 isWild Horses, Part 4,A Certain Romance. I hope you like them.





	Thumbing My Way Back to You

 

I have not been home since you left long ago  
I'm thumbing my way back to heaven  
Counting steps, walking backwards on the road  
I'm counting my way back to heaven

I can't be free with what's locked inside of me  
If there was a key, you took it in your hand  
There's no wrong or right, but I'm sure there's good and bad  
The questions linger overhead

  * [_Thumbing My Way,_](https://open.spotify.com/track/42JkURlKrerwh2JdlwEkg4?si=S2ixfVXrS_C4BK69dj3RfA) **Pearl Jam**



 

[ _ON-CÝÐIG_ ](http://mentalfloss.com/article/66533/20-brilliant-anglo-saxon-words)

_On-cýðig literally means “un-known,” but that’s not to say that it meant the same as “unknown.” Although its exact meaning is debatable, it’s thought on-cýðig referred to the despondent feeling caused by missing something that is no longer close at hand—in other words, the feeling of “knowing” about something or someone, and then either having to leave it behind, or having it taken from you._

 

 

May 4, 2019

A text alert is vibrating in Louis’ pocket. The car bumps over an irregularity in the road, so he almost doesn’t feel it. They’ve just merged onto the M40, on the way back to London, and the sky is dark as the night sea. He had taken out his in-ears a bit too early in the set. His ears ring.

Louis pulls the phone out and stares at the message, a small, dimmed rectangle in the invisible palm of his hand. Three innocuous words.

Earlier, he had said good-bye to his family as they left to go home. His sisters…  all but one… had come to support him. They looked gorgeous, his own face reflected back in theirs, their mother’s eyes and lips with her bubbly enthusiasm. The little ones, too, taking it all in, wide-eyed and overwhelmed, and his grandparents who were behind him one-hundred percent. _Smashed it! Amazing! The crowd was loudest for you! Killed it, Louis!_ The crew kept their distance to let the family in, as Jordan pulled out his point-and-shoot and clicked off a dozen candids. Krystle was packing up her things, and Ernie, rubbing his eyes, was already half-asleep. They were full of smiles. No one said anything about the number 3 on his shirt, nor that Fizzy and Jay would have absolutely loved it.

**_Where are you_ **

It isn’t so much the words, as the sender. It doesn’t say, “Harry Styles,” naturally, but Louis knows who it is, _because_. Louis thought he’d probably be flying out today, if not earlier, He’s over the Atlantic by now, or just landing in New York. He’ll be sprawled out with blankets over his hoodie and covered in books and notes, a proper insomniac, falling asleep just as the gears are deploying for the plane to descend. Silly, sad boy.

Louis remembers all the times he’s found him curled up on a couch with his six-foot frame tucked in like a coyote pup, legs scrambling over each other and softly snoring… on tour, at home, backstage. He never sleeps when he’s supposed to, and always falls asleep at the worst times. He can drink all the fucking kale smoothies in the world, and eat his fucking avocado mash with melatonin additives, it doesn’t matter and it won’t change; his clock is dead irregular.

Louis can't keep count of the times he’s spread a blanket over him, even when they had only one to share, and Louis had to sleep bundled up in layers and layers of Harry’s too-big jumpers and pillowcases… fuck, what terrible disasters they were. Millionaires who couldn’t get two hotel rooms. Then Louis would get cold. They both know that. Louis always gets cold, but Harry falls asleep whenever and wherever he falls asleep, and in the morning his drowsy eyes say _I’m sorry_ as he drags the useless blanket to Louis, still warm with his body heat. He sleeps like a fucking log, like a zombie, like the undead. But what was Louis gonna do, not love him? 

So, who watches over him now, Louis wonders. He tries not to think about it too much, because it’s like looking over his shoulder to see the cliffs crumbling beneath his feet, as he tries to run from it like a fucking lunatic. As he has been. Churning his legs in the air like one of those unfortunate Looney Toons characters.

Louis takes a deep breath, and slides a thumb to open his phone.

_Hiya_

**_Where are you_** , the text repeats, as though the phone were stuttering.

He fucking perseverates, Louis swears. When he gets like this, there’s only one way to calm him down: to give him what he wants.

_You in New York yet boyo?_

Louis knows this will tick him off. His eyebrows will pinch together like a pair of descending seagull wings, he’ll get that pretty girl flush, and he’ll start playing with his mouth, getting angry.

**_Still at the arena?_ **

_No. Just got on the M40._

**_Going home?_ **

_Yeah, back to London._

Louis watches the dots scroll by on the phone. He wonders what’s going on, whether Harry’s been interrupted by a fan wanting a photo or a stewardess bringing tea. _Don’t drink it,_ he wants to tell him. _Go to sleep. You’ll be fucking knackered, stay off the caffeine. A billion flashlights are gonna be on your face soon, boyo. Get the beauty sleep you need._

Louis knows he won’t sleep, can’t sleep anyway. Their schedules are permanently fucked up. He also knows what it’s like to be away, to have a huge dead space in bed— a space you don’t want to acknowledge. That’s what dogs are for, innit, to curl up next to, at home. A big, warm, curly-haired dog, who loves you and won’t leave.

**_Saw your interview tonight._ **

Louis smiles. He was wondering if he had. Louis had scrolled Twitter briefly after the show, watching his “most romantic gesture” interview bit blow up on the internet, as predicted. “Chicken Parma ham wrapped in mozzarella with homemade mash” has never failed them, not once. But it has been a while, hasn’t it? None of them have mentioned it for a few years. It was time to dust off this old gem again.

**_Are you driving?_ **

Louis frowns.

_No. Got a driver._

**_Is it Oli?_ **

_No._

Oli took off with the crew when Louis told him he wasn’t going out tonight. Eleanor left as soon as Louis’ set was done, back to her parents’ for the night. Louis simply wants to be alone, to go over the performance in his head again, and look through the photos Jordan had sent him. He had to pick out a couple to post on social media tomorrow, and then work on the edit for the behind-the-scenes. Jordan was still pinging photos to his email, along with assorted short video clips.

**_Show me._ **

Presumptuous bastard. Harry’s still ordering him around, as if he owns Louis! Precious.

_You first._

Louis waits for a few seconds, glancing at the back of driver’s head. The agency had sent him; Louis has never met him before. He’s doing a good job though, smooth ride, good playlist on the radio. No complaints from Louis. An image pops up on Louis’ phone, and he covers his mouth with his hand.

It’s Harry’s right ear, with a gold stud through it. Louis sees the raised pink skin around the earring, like the rawness around a fresh tattoo but puffier and smaller in area. He has to look at it for a few seconds before he makes out that it’s an ear at all. It’s a dark and pink lobule with a central glimmer.

_Fuck, Harry. Is it for the Gala?_

**_I just wanted it._ **

_Fuck, mate!_

Louis’ chest rises looking at the piercing, this barely discernible golden flash on Harry’s earlobe. The earlobe looks violated, wounded. It’s no longer a virgin.

**_I did it myself._ **

The kid is fearless, goddamn fearless, Louis gives him that. His hand must have been steady as ice to go through it so cleanly, with no signs of struggle. Harry never flinches for anything, but this takes the cake. He’s some kind of control king.

_You didn’t…_

**_A couple of days ago._ **

_Wow. No shit._ Louis pauses. _Did it hurt?_

 **_Felt like a bee sting,_ ** Harry texted. **_A tiny explosion. Not bad._**

Jesus. Louis bites his lip, knowing what’s coming. Unfortunately, Harry might leave Louis, but Harry will never leave him, in a way. Harry’s part of his consciousness now. They had talked about piercings in the past, and Louis knows that once Harry starts, he won’t stop. He gets addicted to a certain kind of touch, an out-of-control beauty. He won’t care about the pain.

_Did you take some paracetamol for it?_

**_I like it. I enjoy it._ **

_Braggart!_

Harry and his fucking pain kink. How many times has Louis done things to him that should kill, only to have him grin back, heady and turned on? Louis grins, thinking about it. The kid was always up for it. 

**_Boo._ **

Louis sinks back in his seat. It seems a lifetime ago since Harry called him by that nickname, a lifetime and several oceans ago. Tonight, Jay’s nickname for him feels too raw and gentle, with too many memories behind it, too close to his heart, too dear to use. He had tucked it away, certain that no one would use it again, because there was only ever a few people who could. That name belongs to a certain time and place.

Suddenly his phone buzzes, and the name “Nattsu Sashimi” shows up, the name stored in his iPhone for Harry, which translates to “nutty sashimi.” Harry is always stored as some configuration of a nut in Louis’ phone, first “Nuts 4 Nuts,” then “Gregg Almond,” then “Tea Nuts” for the bad pun, and now nuts and raw fish. Louis has no idea why he even stores Harry’s number at all, as it constantly changes without his knowing, and anyway, he doesn’t get calls anymore. Fewer and fewer.

Louis swipes without thinking. Harry’s face pops up, below his red headband and wearing the wacky pink Gucci sunglasses. He appears to be in a dim first-class cabin with the hum of the airplane behind him. He is indeed wrapped in a fancy cashmere throw, possibly Gucci, and Louis can’t see much else.

“You were taking too long to answer,” Harry says, his tone peevish.

“You look like you’re joining the circus,” Louis says. “Or going to an ugly costume party.”

“Thanks,” Harry says. “I’ve had three glasses of champagne.”

“And,” Louis says, “you’re already stupid plastered. You’ve gone lightweight, mate. I’m the one who had Red Bull and vodka tonight, but you’re gonna be fucked by jet-lag later.”

“Fucked by whom?” Harry squints. “Didn’t catch that last thing.”

There’s a lull when Harry looks young and giddy, the darkness softening the angles of his jaw and hiding the rough fuzz of his facial hair. He might be the young love hiding behind their door to scare Louis as soon as he came through, or the boy plating his famous homemade tacos at their old Friern Barnet flat. Harry’s alone in his row; must have bought the whole row, which they do for long flights sometimes— surrounded by darkness. Louis sees his eyes droop with fatigue, blinking to stay awake.

“You should take a nap,” he says. “Got a long day tomorrow, haven’t you?”

“Well, I…” Harry juts his lip out, stubborn. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care. You looked good tonight, Boo.”

Louis scoffs. He never thinks he looks good, and his hair tonight was going a million directions. He knows it’s overgrown. He just doesn’t particularly care.

“Fuck off,” he replies.

“I’m serious.”

“Called me just to tell me that?” Louis shakes his head. “Way to waste your WiFi money, babe.”

“Wanted to see your face,” Harry says wistfully. “To hear your voice.”

Louis backs the phone up so all of him shows up on screen. He turns it 270 degrees so Harry can have a full view, and then refocuses closely, because he can’t help fixing his long fringe when he sees himself. The end curls between his fingers as he lets it fall on his forehead. It’s a comforting familiarity to touch himself.

“Yeah,” Harry says, his voice constricted. “Your fringe looks sick. I almost miss you, like.”

“Dickhead!” Louis laughs.

“No, but seriously. You were brilliant tonight,” Harry changes the subject. “And your band— you got a good group. You were really, really good.”

Louis perks up, because this is the thing they never lie to each other about, their live performances. They are never cruel, but they always tell the truth to each other. Even when they mess up and it hurts to hear it, they can trust each other to be honest. They are reliable critics because of their love— and that honesty never changes.

“You sure?”

“Killed it,” Harry says. “So good. Loved _Little Black Dress._ Did you hear the fans screaming?”

Louis can’t help a grin. “They kinda liked it.”

“Liked it!” Harry screeches quietly. “They fucking adored it, Lou, and right they should. It was dead brilliant. You nailed it, man. Really loved the new arrangement on _Just Hold On_ too. It’s so much more rock and roll. You sounded sexy.”

“Shut up,” Louis says. “Arsekisser.”

“I’m serious!” Harry coos. He makes a flirty frown. “Wanted to talk to you right then, but you were busy. I guess.”

Louis doesn’t recall getting any texts. He doesn’t think his phone is broken, either. 

“D’you watch a livestream?”

Harry nods. “Found one last minute. Band was fantastic, Lou.” 

“We’re no CHASM,” Louis winks at him. “We don’t have matching Gucci shoes. Some of the blokes even wear their own trainers, like, with real dirt on them and everything, disgraceful peasants.” 

“They’re gifts,” Harry says, nonplussed. “Alright? From Alessandro. We have to wear them. Gucci has sized them specially— ”

“Well,” Louis interrupts, “no one in my band’s fallen in love yet. We just don’t have that kind of energy.”

“They better not,” Harry says defensively. “Not with you.”

Louis snorts, and then mutters, “Who’s to stop ‘em?” 

But Harry didn’t hear it. He comes closer to the screen, his eyes bright and unfocused, and commands, “Pull your hair, Boo.”

Louis frowns. “What are you on about now?”

“Come on,” Harry says, making a gesture toward his forehead. “Pull it.” 

Louis watches Harry slyly, sees the tight tug on the corner of his mouth. 

“Do you miss my fringe?”

“I hadn’t noticed how long it was getting until I saw you tonight,” Harry squirms in his seat. “Haven’t seen it like this for a while. You— ”

Louis gives a small shake of his head and cuts him off. “And why should I?”

“You look like walking sex,” Harry says. “I swear to God, it makes me feel something.”

“Is it heartburn?” Louis watches him. 

”Darling, don’t make me come spank you,” Harry says, his jaw squaring up, his eyes glimmering like the devil. “I’ve shown you mine. Now show me yours. Fair’s fair.” 

Louis tsks. “Immature.”

Louis glances up at the driver and makes a split-second decision, because he knows how Harry gets, how he feels about Louis’ hair, how he is when he’s slightly drunk, how hyper and needy he feels on a trans-Atlantic flight, how fidgety, itchy, handsy. He knows that look, with all of Harry’s anxiety and yearning packed into it, and he doesn’t know how much he can care. If he wanted to, Harry could be here, but he isn’t. He’s on his way to Gucci and Anna Wintour, to air kisses and high heels, chiffon and nail polish and gold-plated gobshites yelling out his name. Yeah, Louis can’t care very much at all. You sleep in the beds you make.

But Harry wants to see. Louis can feel it. _So let him see._ The night’s young and they’re both a little drunk, and since they’re a whole continent apart again, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters when the night is dark. It’s not real. In the morning, the world goes back to a vapid emptiness. Might as well. 

“Excuse me,” Louis speaks up loud enough for the driver to hear.

The driver sits up, waits a moment, and then answers. “Sir?”’

“I’m taking a personal call back here,” Louis says brightly. “I wonder if I can have some privacy?”

“Certainly.”

Louis hears buttons being pushed, and then a smoky glass partition rises between them until he is secluded in the backseat. Louis feels Harry watching him from the phone, a humanoid blob in a dark reflective surface. He says nothing, but Louis feels his intensity all the same, bursting through the glass.

Louis sticks the phone in the seat pocket in front of him so Harry can get a full view. He runs his fingers over his fringe and carries his hand behind his head, pulling on the hair at the nape of his neck.

“How’s it feel?” Harry asks.

“It hurts,” Louis says. “God, it hurts.” 

“Baby,” Harry breathes out, his eyes growing dark.

Louis pulls at the hair in his temple, stretches it tightly behind him and huffs out a soft groan.

“Mmm,” he says. “The pain’s shooting straight down to me crotch. Fuck.” Louis’ chin tips up, and he groans. “Unggh.”

He can see Harry pushing down the cashmere throw and piling it up in his lap. His legs fidget as he rearranges himself.

“Take your trousers off,” Harry says gruffly. “Show me.”

“Darling,” Louis says, staring at the phone with his narrow, brilliant eyes. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“And then what?” Harry nearly pleads.

“Then we go on our ways,” Louis says. “You’re off to the Met. I go home. No harm, no foul. We’re even.” 

“Deal.”

Harry burrows into his seat more securely, lifts his blanket and tucks the phone inside. It takes a moment until he turns the flashlight function on. He’s lifted his shirt, and there’s some fumbling before Louis gets a clearer view. In the glow of the phone, Louis can make out a tattoo… his butterfly. It is folded as he scrunches down, the wings drifting in the dark planes of his muscular body. Harry readjusts, and Louis can now see the curved laurel leaves pointing down toward the waistband of his trousers. Louis knows just how they look in the dark, on an airplane even, since his hands have been on them, just so. His palms still feel the muscle memory of the smooth rise over the lower belly, the crinkly hairs low on his waist, and the slow dip down to…

Harry unbuttons his trousers and slips them past his hips. Ha! Louis has to chuckle. Never has anyone been less shy about being starkers. Harry’s semi-hard already. His cock slips into his hand in a familiar way. Harry gives the foreskin a gentle stroke, and contracts the perineum to make his cock stand up.

Louis hears Harry’s voice, the low and urgent purr that never fails to send him straight to stiff wood.

“It’s your turn, Lou.”

“Fuck.” Louis is annoyed. Why does Harry always do this to him?

Louis whips off his shirt, keeping an eye on the partition. He tries to keep things quiet, even though he can’t hear the radio in the front, so the compartments must be somewhat soundproof. His shirt smells like smoke and cologne, sweaty, musky, flowery. It smells like him, after an event. Like a fancy man with bad habits. He looks down at his chest, with the calligraphy tattoo running across, and tries to decide how good his pecs look. All those training sessions are paying off. They look buff enough. They’re alright. The elegant muscles of his shoulder run to the bulk of his biceps. He’s fit. 

He can hear Harry fumbling again, leaning down, maybe, the sound of something muffling the phone, and then his hand appears with a dribble of lube. He runs the gel up and down his shaft, the full veiny length of it reaching toward his belly button, his hip arching upward with little urgent thrusts.

“Play with yourself,” Harry grunts. “Go on.” 

Louis shakes his head. He pushes his trousers down until they wrap around his thighs, his cinnamon-colored pubes a dark mound on the car seat. Pulling on his uncut cock, Louis thinks about how Harry’s cock used to feel in his hands, how responsive he was to Louis’ touch. He remembers the first time they touched each other at X Factor House, sleeping with their boners sticking to each other’s backs and pretending they didn’t exist, until one day Harry kicked his pajamas off and said he’d rather sleep naked; it was more comfortable. Later that night, he turned around and laid his cock in Louis’ hands, and his eyes said _Please, Louis_. Louis stroked him slowly and gently— like braising baby back ribs— because that’s what a good friend does when his bro pal asks for a handjob, Louis with his hard-on painfully tucked away, praying silently, _let him like me. God, I’m crushing on this one so, so hard._ Things like this had sometimes gone wrong for Louis in the past. Then Harry wrapped a leg around Louis and kissed him, and it wasn’t a bro pal kiss, and that was that.

”You’re beautiful,” Harry says, voice gruff and low. “Really miss seeing that tattoo.” 

Louis merely glares at him, flicks his wrist and gracefully tugs on the head of his cock. He licks his lips and throws his chin back, knowing Harry can’t look away. His neck is an aphrodisiac. 

As expected, Harry groans out loud. He circles a huge palm around his balls, slathers them in lube and strokes them as he moans.

“Louis,” he says. “Why did you bring up the chicken Parma ham story?”

Louis jerks himself harder, watching Harry. He can practically taste Harry’s pubes. His mouth waters at the memory, Harry mouthfucking him with his giant cock and making him gag, pulling at his hair, precome smearing his lips and chin.

“Romance,” he stutters. “They asked me about the...”

“... most romantic thing you ever did,” Harry finishes for him. “For your girlfriend. I heard.”

“Couldn’t very well say I barebacked her while my bandmates were rehearsing next door,” Louis says, “Or that I ate her out after.”

“I remember that,” Harry says. “I think we set a record.”

“For longest or shortest?”

Harry giggles, sticking a thumb under his foreskin and circling it around the engorged head. “Loudest. Remember Zayn complained?”

“Zayn complained about everything,” Louis says, pulling on his foreskin and wetting it with a couple drops of precome. He hadn’t remembered to bring lube, but he also hadn’t expected Harry to call. He doesn’t need it, anyway. Never with Harry. 

“Yeah, but we were really loud.” Harry pauses for a second. “When you ate me out, I came so hard that they heard me three rooms down. My fucking sperm flew across the room. We didn’t even try to clean it up, remember? I screamed like my balls were getting cut off. Screamed forever.”

“Yeah,” Louis smiles. “That was good.”

“Incredible,” Harry says. “Incredible getting eaten out at eighteen. Everything’s new and so intense, and your tongue was a miracle. Fuck, Lou. I can get off just thinking about it. No one does a rim job like you.”

Louis frowns. “Why? Haven’t you had a large sample size since then?”

“What?” Harry stills, finally understanding the question. “No.”

 _How many,_ Louis wants to ask, desperate with jealousy. _How many since me?_

“Remember the time we spent thirty-six hours straight in our bedroom one time,” Harry says, “fucking?”

Of course Louis remembers. He doesn’t forget any memories with Harry. They’re etched in a journal of blood and bones, stored inside him, beating with every push of his heart. And that’s it, that’s the truth. For Louis, it was never about pain kinks or endurance or decibels. It’s about how much he loves him.

“I loved that,” Louis lies to himself. “The sex was phenomenal, for two beginners. It was mostly sex between us, wasn’t it? The sex was so good.”  

“So, so good,” Harry agrees. “Do you ever have sex like that anymore?”

“No,” Louis admits honestly. “No, can’t say there’s anyone quite like you, Harold. Your key fits my lock, for better or worse.”

“And your tongue belongs in my arse. Love that mouth of yours.”

Harry arches his back so his cock looks even bigger toward the phone. He has a thumb on the glans and his hand is over the head, sliding the foreskin up and down. It’s a deep dark color, and Louis can immediately smell his Harry, taste his salty, vinegary sweat and the bitter creaminess of the precome, feel the firm borders of his abdominal muscles pushing back against Louis’ fingers pressing in, keeping him from bucking. Louis can feel the gentle contracture of Harry’s hole after it’s been stretched open from fucking, loose and sensitive to every lick and probe, the wetness of Louis’ come mingling with Harry’s own juiciness. How Harry responded to his tongue probing him, to his prostate being licked and stroked, how he could still shoot off dribbles after coming once or twice, how Louis would lick it up and feed it back to him, and his dissolute, shiny eyes saying _please, please Louis._

“Loved fucking you, Harry,” Louis says. “Always loved it.”

”I miss you fucking me.” 

The way his voice hitches makes Louis’ cock lurch. Harry’s slim fingers are jerking the head of his cock until precome pulses out in bursts, swirling into the lube. Louis’ mouth fills with the memory of his taste. 

”You’re gorgeous, Curly,” he whispers. 

Harry is repositioning the phone so it aims lower. His huge cock fills the screen, but the phone keeps moving. He’s doing some adjustments to his blanket. Louis sees two interlocking G’s on the bottom of the cashmere throw… Jesus. Does he wear Gucci condoms, too, for fuck sake? Do they come with Swarovski crystals, for maximal retail pleasure?

Then Louis sees. Harry has rotated so that the phone is aimed at his well-toned arse, and he’s taken out a large, purple, vibrating dildo. The dildo is positioned to go in, and Louis hears him grunt softly as it enters, his breaths irregular, his arsehole clenching. It is slowly pushed in, and Harry holds it with a low moan.

“Wish it was you,” Harry moans. “You fill me up like no one else. Want you so bad.” 

Hearing Harry say that almost sends Louis over. He’s barely breathing himself. He grips his cock with both hands, the skin now slippery with generous precome, and pulls the foreskin forward. He rubs himself under the head where he knows he’ll get off if he keeps at it. The sight of Harry fucking himself on an airplane crosses some wire in Louis’ mind so he can’t really think anymore.

“Fuck,” Harry whines, sinking down, his cheeks vibrating. “I’m close. Show me your slit.”

Louis doesn’t say another word, but pushes his cock toward the phone, head slimey with precome, the slit teased open with a thumb. A final few strokes later, Louis howls with pleasure at the same time that Harry does, six miles up in the sky and a thousand miles away. He rubs himself raw, his thumb swimming in it. A ribbon of come hits Louis in the chin. Has it really been that long? He feels the wetness spray down his chest, on his thighs, sees droplets on the leather cover of the driver’s seat. It has the unmistakable, strong odor of sex. Soundproof or not, this car’s going to smell like come when he leaves. Louis hasn’t gotten off like this in a long time. Harry takes everything out of him. 

They say nothing for a while, lying back and panting. Harry eases the dildo out. He pulls his pants up first, while Louis sprawls out on the car seat like some royalty from a nation that doesn’t wear clothes. Harry has a slight smile on his face, glancing through the phone at Louis from time to time.

“Are we in London yet?”

“Are you daft?” Louis exhales, still breathing fast, his hands trying not to smear the mess around him. “Takes more than thirty minutes to get there from Birmingham.”

“Has it been thirty minutes?”

Harry sounds spent. He has his sweet, post-come face. Louis tries not to look at him, but how can he not look? Harry is always A Lot, and he’s right. Fucking. There. God, Louis misses him. Once upon a time they would be cuddling up right now, saying cute, stupid shit to each other. Louis furrows his eyebrows and shakes his head. He’s starting to feel things, things at the periphery that he’s whipped away like a pack of wolves. He won’t do it. 

Harry shyly gathers the cashmere blanket up around him. He tucks the ends under his thighs, and pulls the edge right up to his chest. He looks like a sexy beige chrysalis. His butterfly has gone back to incubation.

“Messed up your Gucci blanket, didn’t you,” Louis points out. He’s sweaty and exhausted and could use a bed right now, and emotionally, a storm has been brewing inside. He wants to push it away, to forget. If Harry rang him up for sex, well, they’re done now. Time to fuck off.  

“Shut up,” Harry murmurs. “I don’t care about that.” 

“You should get some sleep, lad,” Louis says. “Bright and early tomorrow.”

“Don’t say that.” Harry scrunches his nose in displeasure.

“What, _bright and early?”_

“No,” Harry says. “Don’t call me _lad_. I’m not your _lad._ ”

“Girl?” Louis feels tired and annoyed. He starts putting on his shirt, scooting his pants on. “Lady? Pikachu?” 

“I’m your Harry.” Harry repeats softly. “Yours.”

“No, you’re not,” Louis laughs, cold and judgmental. “You’re everyone else’s. You don’t belong to me.” He sighs, not looking at Harry. He can’t do this right now. “Thanks for calling, babe. It was nice to catch up.” Louis reaches to switch off the phone.

“None,” Harry says quietly. “The answer is none.”

Louis’ hand arrests. “What?”

“No one.” Harry looks up, his face tired and drawn. “That’s how many people have rimmed me since you. Zero.”

“Listen, Harry, your sex life is your own bus— ”

“That’s how many people I’ve been with since you, Louis,” Harry goes on. “There’s been none. No one.”

Louis breathes shallowly. “What?”

“I do miss you,” Harry says. “I do, you know.”

The low rumble of Harry’s voice vibrates in Louis’ throat. It’s always hummed like that, long after the concerts and the laughter. It hums like a harmony inside himself. 

“Why?” Louis says quietly, without any fight. He doesn’t want to see what Harry’s face looks like, because it might just break him. “Why would you?” 

Harry pulls his blanket up to his chin. He shuts off the light of his phone so it’s almost completely dark, only the low, husky whisper of his voice coming through.

“I love you.”

Louis lets that stand. He can’t say it unless he means to say it, and even though he feels it with every molecule in his body, he doesn’t mean to say it. The silence engulfs them both. 

“Have a safe trip, love.”

“Alright,” Harry says, his voice subdued, everything drained out of him. “Goodnight.”

Louis stares at the phone for a long second.

“Goodnight, my Harry.”

 

 

 

 

 

[Come say hi on Tumblr](https://13ways-of-looking.tumblr.com/post/185214944761/thumbing-my-way-back-to-you-by-13ways). 

This story is part 1 of the Miss You series, [here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/foot). Part 2, [Heel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19356790). Part 3, [Wild Horses.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19740097) Part 4, [A Certain Romance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19828999).

**Author's Note:**

> Some have asked me whether Lou and Haz will get their shit together. I’m signed up to write Wordplay Challenge this summer, so I’m going to say yes! Yes! Yes! *slaps table* Oh my god yes! (I’ll have what she’s having. ;)). 
> 
> Needless to say, the characters in this story are fictitious. This canon compliant fic is not meant to suggest actual events. Please do not translate without permission. This is a gift for the fandom. I love you all.


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